You'll Ask For Me By Name
by Rachel-Jane Kensington
Summary: Thom didn't have much before division. But he had a life. He had love. Oneshot, Thom/OFC, rated M for sexual content, suggest violence and adult themes. -Complete-


**You'll Ask For Me By Name**

_And it's never fair the way that we meet and then you disappear  
It's so hard to give you up, but too easy to pretend  
You know it's real, the way that we talk, the way you feel  
But it never fails, the sun comes up and the story dies  
Baby, all I need is someone like you burning through me  
_-'I Believe In You' by Tyler Hilton

It's February and as the sun drops, the temperature in Philadelphia quickly follows suit. Thirty-three…thirty-one…twenty-eight degrees Fahrenheit. Every hair on Thom's body is standing up painfully straight and the wind whipping between buildings digs into his bones. As his cheeks burn, his blue eyes darken under the sudden flurry of snowflakes that have kicked up.

Even as his gaze stays down, head bowed against the wind, he can feel the stares of every other person that walks past trying to penetrate him. Trying to break him. It won't work. He knows he doesn't belong in Society Hill and he's even more aware of how obvious that must be to the people who _do_. Shit, it didn't get its name for nothing. You have to be rich just to piss on the streets here.

Rich, well-educated and living in a three-story row house with both of your parents and a dog. Thomas has none of those things. A product of the foster system, he'd always felt more at home in juvie than anyplace else. Except maybe the McKendry home.

He hadn't been welcome at his best friend's house for a close to nine months, but the half a year he had spent there stayed crystallized in Thom's mind as the only time he'd ever felt truly happy. Not necessarily because Ben's mom had been all that hospitable. Or because the house had been so well-furnished and fridge always fully stocked. Mostly just because for the first time in his life, he'd had a safe place to go at the end of every day where someone gave a shit about him. That someone wanted him around, and would have gone looking if he hadn't come home. He had no idea why it mattered so much to him. But it did. And she was the reason he had been sneaking back in for almost a year.

Christine had fought with Ben when he'd first announced that Thom would be staying with them for a while. She hadn't wanted a delinquent living across the hall from her, especially if he was her brother's best friend. An aspiring equestrian with near-spotless grades and a job at her father's law firm, Christine couldn't possibly have differed from her older brother more. With his hands shoved in his pockets, Thom smirks to himself. She'll never admit how much she worries about Ben, but at night when it's just the two of them laying in the pooling streetlight that streams through her window; the secrets she keeps bottled up all day are his for the taking. She wants Ben to be happy, she's just scared for him. And she knows no other way to communicate it than to get on his ass about what a screw-up he is. It never works, and she hates herself after every fight, but in her defense, Ben really can be a douche bag to his sister. Hell, he can be a douche in general.

So can Thom. The first few weeks in the McKendry house were rocky. Chris and he had been forced to share a bathroom. He'd never known there were so many kinds of lotion, or that leaving your towels on the floor could piss a girl off so bad. Of course, once he learned that it could, he felt only encouraged. Could he help it if she was cute as fuck when stomping around, glaring at him? God, no. In fact, it had been during one of these episodes when he'd first kissed her. Grabbed her by the waist and shoved her clear across the bathroom until his body had been holding her own to the wall and their fighting had become wordless; purely physical. Taking the form of the best first kiss he's ever had.

Smile growing at the memory, Thom throws his backpack over the wrought-iron gate that leads to the McKendry's garden, before scaling the wall himself. The temperature is continuing to drop and as he climbs up the maple tree that guards the East side of the house, Thom feels the involuntary shivers running across his shoulders and spine begin to pick up in frequency. It's amazing he can get a grip on this tree at all, given how numb with cold his fingertips have gone. He needs to get inside fast. He needs to find something to eat before he faints. More than anything, he just needs to feel Chris's warm body in his arms.

Thankfully, this has become so routine that the route to her window takes him less than four minutes to traverse. And, just like always, she's left the latch open just for him. The room is empty when he crawls over the ledge and lands with a gentle thump on her bed. But he's alright with that, just as long as he can get a break from the cold, unforgiving streets of Philly in the winter. Tossing his backpack to the side, he slumps against the wall and takes a few deep breaths. He can feel his skin literally thawing, and it's almost painful. But Thom has grown so accustomed to pain over the years, the two are nearly friends.

After a few minutes of rest, his eyes open again slowly and he scans the bedroom of the girl he loves. Nothing has changed. Nothing ever does. He's never pretended to understand how she can stay so consistent, so reliable. But he loves her for it. Sometimes it feels as though he's being tossed around in an ocean full of angry, battering waves. But Chris is his island rock. His lighthouse.

Checking his watch, he smiles a little knowing that, at this very moment, she's cleaning the kitchen beneath his feet. Reaching out for his bag, he figures he might as well dig out what he brought. Clothes hide the shit he's been stealing out of houses and shops all week. The drugs and jewelry and digital cameras that he'll pawn at some store across the river in Jersey tomorrow morning. Money for food, green, a hostel room if he needs it, maybe even some new winter boots. Looking down at his own as he unties the laces, he figures he might be able to stretch them out into April. Hell, he's had to deal with worse. Then at least he can invest in some Nikes for the summer. Though it's more likely that he'll just steal some.

It's a terrible habit, lifting things. But survival is Thom's only religion and this is what it takes to keep him alive. Stealing shit to pawn it off? That's like stepping into a confessional to repent. Every item sold is a prayer, every dollar in his hand at the register is like communion at the altar. Besides, Chris has gotten him to kick every other habit. Coke, Lortab, cigarettes. All he has left is her. But that's enough for him. If he's honest with himself, the feeling of her skin under his fingertips, the soft weight of her head on his chest, outstrips any drug.

Digging around in the bottom of the bag, his fingers hit paperback just as she opens her door. For the first few months that Thom was sneaking in, she would jump a little every time he surprised her like this. A small gasp would close around her throat and he would savor the sound, the way she held a hand to her chest. Now she merely grins and gently closes the door behind her, flicking the lock to the left. Within seconds she's crossed the room, coming to stand between his legs and sighing against his mouth as their arms snake around each other. Somehow the feeling of his broad shoulders under her hands never grows old. The unrefined, needy way he kisses her never ceases to thrill. But suddenly, as his fingertips begin sliding up her back, beneath her sweater, she gasps and pulls back.

"You're hands are freezing." Her eyes are heartbroken as she looks into his, a perfect frown pulling down her features.

"I'm sure you can do something about that…" His smirk is dark as he attempts to pull her close again. But she resists.

"When's the last time you ate?" Chris is always like this. It's the reason her brother can't stand her. It's hard sometimes, having grown up looking after himself, for Thom to deal with so much concern. But he'd rather put up with it then not have it at all. His cold hands curl around her waist, her neck, until their noses are touching.

"It doesn't matter." He murmurs so low it's little more than a gravely breath. His stomach is caving in on itself because he hasn't eaten since yesterday afternoon. But when she's this close, when he can smell the familiar scent of her perfume and feel the warmth of her skin, everything else can wait.

"You're a liar." She smirks, eyelashes lowering, brushing his cheek. Thom just chuckles, leaning back and dragging her with him. Chris bites her lip to keep from giggling out loud as he pulls her down. If her parents catch him here they'll skin him alive. Not that she can blame them. Last time they saw him, he had been stealing her mother's family heirlooms for drug money. Not the best impression to leave on the people he now hoped would be his future in-laws.

"You keep saying that like it doesn't turn you on." Laying beneath her, Thom's cold hand begins edging up under her shirt again. This time she lets him, eyes fluttering closed as a deep, slow breath fills her lungs.

"I've missed you so much." Her voice is a whisper, breath hitching slightly as her sweater follows his touch up her ribs and chest. He pulls her closer after tossing it away, running his hand up her spine as their mouths meet. He takes his time playing with her lips, pulling here, tugging there. Even after a year, everything inside of Chris trembles when he kisses her. His scent fills her nose, and she breathes deeper trying to get as much as she can while he's still here. It's nothing like the cologne laden, after-shave heavy smell of the boys at school. Thom's skin is full of Philadelphia's streets. Bitter cold. Wisps of smoke puffing free of living room fireplaces. Gasoline exhaust. And her favorite guilty pleasure, the faint heaviness of weed threaded through the fibers of his clothing. The second it hits her senses, Chris's hips pivot against his instinctually before she can even think about it.

Thom's head digs back against her pillows, strong hands gripping her skin until his nails are white. A soft groan leaves his throat, but she's already shifted further down his body. Leaning down, Chris's small, warm fingers begin edging up the hem of his shirts. Her mouth presses soft kisses against the firm skin of his stomach, following his clothes as they retreat further up his chest. His fingers thread through her soft, light brown hair as he struggles not to make any noise. The cold that still lingers in his limbs is quickly being forgotten as her lips sear into the ridge of his pelvic bone, the gentle curve of his jutting hip, the dip of his bellybutton, the outline of his ribcage.

Finally, she's straddling him again and their mouths meet for a series of brief, but ardent kisses as he sits up just enough to toss away the two layers covering his upper body. As he does, Christine loses her balance and falls back against the mattress with a soft thump. Her big, hazel-blue eyes are surprised at first and Thom can't help but chuckle at the look on her face. Almost innocent. Just the idea is incredibly amusing.

"What are you smirking at?" She flicks an eyebrow, tossing her hair back as she leans against her elbows.

"Just you," He continues to flash a smirk as he lifts a knee up, straddling her hips. "You and your impeccable grace."

His right hand comes down to undo the belt barely holding his loose jeans up and she can't help but let her gaze slide south for a second. Subconsciously, the tip of her tongue darts out to wet her lips as her heart beat picks up. She has a major test in AP History tomorrow and a report due on her father's desk by 5 pm. But hell if that means anything to her right now.

"Fuck. You." She presses a smile against his mouth as he tosses the belt aside and leans down, threading his hands through her hair, around her back, down her sides. Chris knows her family is just outside of the door. That she needs to try and keep some self-control in place if this is going to work. But god damn it, when he touches her she has absolutely no control over the way her body automatically responds. Her legs slide around his waist to pull him closer, back arches up, nails curl in towards the skin of his shoulders. And as he undoes her bra, leaves a series of slow, wet kisses along her neck and collarbone…as he tugs her jeans down and plays with the hem of her panties…as he overwhelms every single one of her senses, she can't help the soft whimpers and moans that come straight up from the darkest depths of her core.

She's not even aware that all of their clothing has found its way to the floor until he's pulling the thick comforter over them, wrapping her thighs back around his hips as he stares dead into her eyes. It's always like this with him. Somehow, no matter what pace they've been moving at, he's always able to stop everything just for a handful of moments. Moments in which nothing exists but the blue-green of his eyes and the electricity that crackles between their skin. Moments in which it feels as though her conscious mind, body and life have ceased to exist, dissolving into nothing but desire, love and ecstasy.

And then he's inside of her, and she can barely breathe. Normally, Thom is the strongest person she knows. He's a survivor and she's well –aware that, had their positions been reversed, she probably wouldn't have made it half as far. Sometimes, she truly starts to believe nothing can touch him, nothing can break him. But in her arms he's the most vulnerable man she's ever seen in her life. Shaking, sweating, desperate. Every single wall comes tumbling down because he trusts her with the rawest, truest part of himself. Chris is sure, there's nothing more beautiful.

"I love you." He whispers, pressing a kiss just behind her ear. She sighs, running her fingers through the hair at the back of his neck. A lot of guys say it in bed, she knows that. But he sticks around after to prove it over and over and over again until she has no choice but to believe him. To really feel the truth of it.

"I love you so much, Thom." Their eyes meet again, and she can tell he's close from the way his fingers dig into her skin harder. The way his mouth parts just the slightest bit. Bringing her hips up harder, she works to keep up with his quickening pace, refusing to be anywhere but by his side in everything. He kisses her hard, groaning into her mouth to try and muffle the sounds he can no longer control. She kisses back, arms pulling him as close as humanly possible. But for just a second of pure, infinite light, they feel so much closer.

Everything bursts into white. Fuzzy. Like a television set broadcasting only snow. She can't feel anything, not the sweat on her own skin, the weight of his body on top of her or the painfully hard beat of her pulse. Nothing. And it's perfect.

He falls beside her, blinking slowly as the world comes back into focus. Breathing hard as his heart pounds, releasing rushes of dopamine throughout his brain. This high is the best anyone can ask for. Everything else is a joke afterwards. The world can take away all the pills and powder and nicotine. They can take whatever little money he's scrapped together, the rep he's built out on the streets. Just as long as he has this.

Chris comes down faster than him, she always does. As soon as her vision returns, she leans over to press a kiss to his cheek. Her hair falls across his shoulder, sending a sigh of electricity down his arm.

"I'm gunna go get you some food. I'll be right back." With the energy of a small rabbit, she jumps out of bed and begins searching the room for her clothing. Even in her spotless bedroom, it's still a little tricky. Body still throbbing, Thom slowly rolls over onto his side, watching her get dressed. Something about the way she tugs up her jeans, untucks the hair from her sweater, never fails to make him feverish.

"I think I'll take the goose liver pâté, with just a little bit of Greek salt on the steamed carrots. And make sure Pierre doesn't burn the soufflé this time. That shit was rank last week." For all of his witty sarcasm, Thom receives only a pillow to the face in return.

"Your ass gets whatever I can scrounge up from the kitchen without alerting the entire house." Tucking a few strands of hair behind her hair, Chris leans down to kiss him tenderly. Somehow, it doesn't quite turn out as quick and gentle as she had originally planned. The blush that stains her cheeks as she stands betrays the fact. Before she can turn to leave however, his fingers curl around her palm hard enough to keep her tethered. Chris's eyes find his again, wearing surprise that borders on concern, but he's as placid as ever. Just staring up at her.

"I've missed you." His voice is quiet, serious. Melting a little, Christine squeezes his hand and smiles at him almost sadly. Their eyes stay on a crash course for half a minute more, and then she's gone. Thom sighs. Snuggles back under the covers. Watches the snow fall outside of her window. Finally, he figures he should at least throw his boxer-briefs and jeans back on. Not that it really matters. Chris has seen it all and her parents will shoot him whether fully naked or half-so. But still.

She returns just as he's doing up the zipper, and he could fall over with elation. On the plate in her hands sits a rather large roast beef sandwich, a pile of chips and a can of Dr. Pepper. He's not sure where she hides that shit, because her parents don't believe in soda. But it's here, waiting for him every time he visits and every time she hands him one he has to hold back the urge to propose.

"God bless you." He murmurs on a relieved exhale as the top of the can pops in. Twenty minutes ago he would have whimpered at the ice cold bubbles tickling his throat. But now, sitting on the edge of her bed, sweaty and only just recovering his breath, he tastes heaven. As he sits back against the wall, inspecting the contents of his plate with ravenous eyes, Christine pulls the chair from her desk and perches herself upon it Indian style. Her arms fold neatly across the back and her chin rests on the dark red material of her sweater. Her eyes watch him like the moon watches the tide. Quiet, unexpectant, full of curiosity.

Between school, work, her crazy family, equestrian competitions and trying to plan for the future, Chris often feels like she's on the verge of a mental breakdown. Everyone wants something. No one listens. And there are a million different directions all demanding her attention at once. But somehow, Thom slows everything down. Just sitting here watching him take bites of a sandwich that are too big for his mouth is like her own personal kind of meditation. All at once calming, assuring and comforting. Grinning suddenly, as a child who has been asked to play, she springs up from her chair and nearly leaps toward the desk behind her.

Thom arches an eyebrow, freezing mid-chew for just a moment to watch her sift through the thick piles of paper and books stacked on her desk. Every book corner lines up. Each sheet of paper is in exactly the right section of the right notebook. He's never really understood how she can be so organized all the time. Sometimes it drives him a little crazy, her being so neurotic. But usually, especially moments like these, he just finds it cute.

Jumping up to sit cross-legged near her pillows, Chris proudly hands him a few brochures. He hesitates, pretty sure she'll freak if he gets mayonnaise and crumbs all over them. She just laughs and motions again for him to take them.

"They're just brochures, Thom. I can get more."

Giving her a playfully doubtful look, he eventually takes them. Bright, glossy pictures burst open in his hands. Scenes of beaches and cruise ships. People laughing in the waves, sharing fruity drinks on lounge chairs dug into the sand. Definitely not Philadelphia. Swallowing, he tries to piece the clues together without getting his hopes up. It's not that he expects Christine to let him down, it's just that guys like him learn early in life not to hope. That for them, it's just better not to expect anything at all.

"…What is this?"

Smiling, she curls up beside him, wrapping her hand around his arm and leaning in to point at certain words on the brochures.

"This is your summer vacation." She looks incredibly pleased with herself. "There's this time share villa on St. Kitts my parents just invested in. They said I can take a few people down there for graduation. I mean…you'd have to garner an invitation, but…" Glancing up at him, her eyes are dancing with excitement. He hates himself for not being capable of the same.

"Chris, I don't…I don't have the money for this, I'm not…"

"What are you talking about?" Pulling back, she looks at him as if he just threatened to pull down the sun. "Thom, I would never ask you"-

"You can't afford to float me for a week in Jamaica, I won't let"-

"_St. Kitts_."

"Whatever." He sighs wearily, looking back down at his half-eaten sandwich with longing. "Look. It's not like I don't wanna go, it looks great. It really does, but…" When his eyes finally meet hers again they're brimming with helplessness. A deep breath fills her lungs and she nods, taking the brochures away and laying them out of sight.

"I just thought…you know…a week away from all of this."

Thom learned a long time ago that people only have the power to make you feel guilty if you let them. For years, he put up walls that never let anyone close enough to wrench his emotions around that way. But Chris can. She's the exception to every rule he's ever made for the sake of survival. With a heavy sigh, he gives up on his dinner and pushes the plate away before pulling her between his knees. His strong arms wrap securely around her shoulders, nose nestling against the soft skin of her neck.

"Where the hell is St. Kitts anyway?" His tired voice mumbles into her hair. Even with her back pressed to his chest, he can feel the soft smile that lights up her face at his interest.

"It's in the Caribbean," She tells him, the tips of her fingers running back and forth across his forearm. "A little bit southeast of Puerto Rico. And one thousand, seven-hundred, twenty six miles away from Society Hill."

"No wonder you got excited." The chuckle in his words reverberates through his chest, rippling gently across Christine's back. He tries to think of things that make him laugh outside of these four walls. But the truth is, there are none. This room offers the only warmth Philadelphia has ever shown him.

"Exactly." Her eyebrows arch up and together pitifully over her shoulder. "Why don't you want to go with me?"

With a deep sigh, he eases away from her, somehow finding the strength to restrain an eyeroll until she's been left behind him. When he reaches for his undershirt, it isn't because he actually plans to leave, just that his hands have a need to keep busy. It's always like that when he's frustrated and it always has been. Used to get him into shitloads of trouble at school.

"I never said I didn't want to go with you." He grumbles, pulling the shirt over his head. "But I just ca"-

Before he can finish his sentence, she's leapt from the bed. Features creased with concern, Chris lets her fingertips drift across the ugly, yellow and purple bruises that stain his back. Immediately his muscles tremble, jerking away as he pulls his shirt the rest of the way down.

"What the fuck are those _from_?" Her words come out hollow sounding, like a moaning wind.

"Angels." He mumbles sarcastically, swooping down to grab his overshirt. Chris's arms come to fold just under her chest, hip jutting to the side with a lack of amusement.

"Thom, I'm serious." She knows this probably isn't helping. But she's not perfect at handling him, he's not like the boys at school. Or _anything _at school for that matter. School, with its rigid schedule and starched uniforms, makes sense. School (and the people in it) are something she can handle with perfect ease. Thom never has been. Every single day with him is a rugged mountain trail saying "Give up already, you won't ever get this right". But she refuses because she craves the challenge. Because everything else pales in comparison. Because she loves him.

"It's nothing." Another sigh falls from his lips, but he's unable to look her in the eyes. "Just some guys being stupid, it's no big deal."

"Have you seen anyone about that…?"

"Yeah, babe. I just waltzed into St. Christopher's and had them swipe my black card."

"Alright, you don't need to get upset. I'm just worried." She hates it when he makes her feel like this. Like no matter how many blue ribbons, straight-A semesters or pay raises she earns, she'll still never get him. She'll only ever be some ignorant, little brat who can't really comprehend his world because she's too stuck in her own.

He hates that look she gets on her face. Like she's scared of him or something. Like she wishes he'd just say 'fuck this' and climb back out the window already, so she can break down and cry. Taking a deep breath, he steps forward to tuck some hair behind her ear. Her eyelids fall closed and she untangles the arms from across her chest. Before he's even sure how she got there, his arms are wrapped around her and she's breathing against his chest.

"I've been workin' for these guys and it's kind of rough…it's nothing I can't handle. I just can't exactly take time off from this sort of job."

"Jesus Christ," She sighs, fingers curling with frustration around the worn down material of his shirt. "Tell me you're not working for a gang or something."

He doesn't answer. Just stands there, holding her the only way he knows how. That way that makes her feel safe and cared for and warm and small. That way that lets her know, she could fall to pieces and he wouldn't for a second love her any less. That way that no one else has ever been capable of. And probably never will be.

"I'm going to strange you with my bare hands." She grumbles, almost as if it's a real threat. Thom just chuckles, pulling back enough so she can see his smirk.

"That would probably tickle."

Chris just rolls her eyes, smiling in spite of herself as she falls back onto the bed hard enough for the springs to bounce a little beneath her. She feels her sweater ride up, her jeans shimmy down an inch or two. The more dominant feeling however, is of Thom's eyes burning a line across her exposed skin as he roots around inside of his back pack.

"You're such as ass." She grumbles, using her foot to shove him his shoulder playfully as he kneels beside the bed. Suddenly, he's climbing on top of her, pinning her down with his hips.

"If I were an ass, would I have brought you a present?" His eyebrows lift innocently and Chris sits up as best as she can beneath him, highly intrigued. From his hands to her own passes a book. The pages are yellow, spine cracked, cover faded. But it remains stunning in its beauty.

"Till We Have Faces." She reads, brushing the front artwork with her fingertips, "By C.S. Lewis."

Ancient Rome's Cupid flutters across the cover, his hand reaching down to earth, and a terrified Psyche. Or at least, she thinks it's Psyche. Flipping the book over in her hands, Chris fingers the paperback affectionately as she scans the summary. Apparently this is a new take on the myth of old. Exactly the sort of thing she loves to get lost in. Glancing above the cover, she offers Thom a blushing smile that's trying (but refusing) to hide.

"You stole this didn't you."

He leans down until she's forced to as well, hair splayed out across the sheets beneath them. Nose brushing against her cheek as he nods, he notices her gaze drop to his mouth for just a second or two.

"I swear to God, I am _not _going to come visit you in jail." She breathes, wondering if he can hear the fierce pulse rushing through the veins beneath her skin.

"Of course you will." His lips just barely brush hers before he pulls back again, tilting his head in the opposite direction and mumbling once more. "What kind of defense attorney doesn't visit their clients?"

Setting the book aside for later, Christine curls her arms around his neck, moaning softly against his mouth as his rough hand massages the denim wrapped around her thigh.

"I'm pretty sure we would be considered a conflict of interest."

"You gunna thank me for the book or what?" He growls, teeth tugging gently as they graze her earlobe. Pushing with her hips, she flips him onto his back, mostly because he lets her. From on top of him, she slides her hands down his arms, over his wrists and across his palms until their fingers are slipping into place around one other.

"If I thank you properly," She breathes across his lips, close enough to kiss him if she wanted to but holding back purposefully, "will you promise to go with me to St. Kitts?"

He hesitates at first, knowing this is dangerous territory. He can't go with her, he _knows _that. But when she's shifting her hips like this across his lap, there's very little Thom is capable of denying the love of his life. As compassionate and sweet as this girl can be, she has a fucking dangerous spoiled streak that has a tendency to overpower anything else. It's gunna get him killed some day, of that he's sure. The question is: Will it be worth it?

As she sits up and slips his hands just under the material of her sweater, arching her back a little as he traces the curves of her spine and ribcage with his calloused palms. As she sighs his name the way no other girl can and lets her head fall back. As he pulls her down and feels the strength of Christine's pulse in her swollen lips, he knows the answer is yes.

* * *

_It's like I'm looking from a distance, standing in the background  
I can't even breathe, everybody's saying, he's not coming home now  
This can't be happening to me, this is just a dream  
_- 'Just A Dream' by Carrie Underwood

'_Five more minutes.' _Chris thinks to herself for the fourth time, eyes darting fervently up and down the terminal. Her nails are white around the phone in her hands, bottom lip swollen painfully beneath her nervous teeth.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is the final boarding call for American Airlines flight one-nine-eighty-five. All passengers, please come to the counter now." The attendant at the kiosk announces over the loudspeaker before glancing her way, shrugging apologetically. They simply can't wait any longer, no matter how much she begs. Chris can feel her heart rate spike and sink all at once. Her brain is _drenched _in serotonin and has been all morning. She tries to remember it's just a biological reaction to anxiety. It doesn't have to have any power over her. But that's a boldface lie.

Leg bouncing nervously, she checks her phone for the fiftieth time. No messages. Finally, after four and a half hours of restraint, Chris calls someone else. Someone who _has_ to answer. The only person who she knows is home on account of his possessing no life. Though it isn't entirely his fault. Court-ordered house arrest tends to have that affect.

"Hello?" Her brother's voice cracks with aggravated fatigue, ending with the upswing of a yawn. She can just picture him laying across his mess of a bed, hair sticking in every direction that isn't down.

"Ben,…" She's standing now, not even sure why, biting into her bottom lip to keep the stress inside of her firmly bottled up. She tries to speak. But no words will come. How is she supposed to phrase this? I think I lost my boyfriend? Your best friend is ditching me? She's too proud for that. But the fear isn't going down without a fight.

Ben hates his sister. She's annoying and arrogant and thinks she's better than him just because the system rewards her for kissing its ass. Then on top of it all, she had to go and steal the only person who had ever been on his side, Thom. But there's a fear in her voice so clear and poignant across the airwaves, he feels seized by a concern that he usually prefers to be keep hidden under the trap doors of his own rebellious heart.

"What's wrong?" Though he's struggling to feel any kind of conscious, he makes the effort to sit up amongst the tussled comforter that's half hanging off his bed. Everything in his room is an off-kilter blur. What time is it anyway…? Glancing at his clock he furrows his brows, stopping abruptly at the number 8. She can't be serious. This better be every inch the emergency it sounds like.

"I don't…I don't even know. Ben, he was supposed to meet me at the house this morning and now they're boarding and I can't…he's not picking up his phone. He hasn't been answering my text messages, I"-

"Chris, _Chris_ _stop_." He's never heard her unravel like this and it's freaking him out. What the hell is she even talking about? "Take a deep breath okay? Just, try to calm the fuck down….Now, what's going on?"

A few, deep but shuddering breaths pass through her throat and she closes her eyes, trying desperately to get a hold of her emotions.

"Thom." Just speaking his name out loud makes her chin tremble. She realizes then that something is wrong. It's just in her gut that some heart-stopping, breath-stealing, life-changing thing has happened. And maybe she knew all along. "He always picks up his phone for me. Always."

"Alright," Ben still isn't following her, but he's already got his jeans halfway on. "I'm sure there's an explanation. Why don't you just…get yourself home and we'll figure this out."

This really is not the way he had planned to spend his Friday morning. But even if Thom ditched him a long time ago for his bitch of a sister, he's still Ben's best friend. He still feels obligated to at least _try_ and give a shit.

Swallowing the pain that coils around her windpipe, Chris just nods. She can't speak, all she can do is push past the crowds of people lounging around Philadelphia International as though the world isn't caving in on itself. When the sea of luggage and torturously slow elevators gives way to the safety of her Jeep's driver's seat the tears finally claw into her. She doesn't even know why she's crying.

'_Nothing has happened.' _She tells herself, turning the key in the ignition with slightly more force than necessary. _'He's fine. I'm completely overreacting. He's _**fine**_.' _

But somehow, everything inside of her already knows that's a lie.

Days go by. Each night brings less sleep. Every morning, gray semi-circles dig their graves deeper and deeper beneath her eyes. She forgets food even exists, doesn't see the concern in her mother's face. All she knows is the heat of Philadelphia's summer scorched streets as she walks. And walks. And walks. She asks everyone she knows and many more who she never will.

Ben tries to talk to her. But she stopped listening weeks ago. Princeton calls, they need her to come in to finalize some paperwork. She forgets to call them back. Sometimes she visits her horses. Most of the time she can't be bothered. At night she lays in bed, hating herself. Wondering why she can't just snap out of it. Wake up.

'_Because you loved him.' _Her heart replies. And the hatred only grows as her nails dig into the nearest pillow, her lungs nearly giving out as she struggles to keep the sobs silent.

The police say they're looking. She knows they're full of shit. They know Thom by name, what do they care if one more punk-ass thug gets what's coming to him. So much cleaner the streets.

She can't listen to music any more. She hates television. The internet makes her sick. When her phone dies, it's more of a relief than a crisis. But she still digs around for the charger. Just in case.

Finally, as her numb fingers go through the motions of packing up her room two weeks before freshman orientation, Ben walks in. He's been so quiet around her lately. _Respectful. _She'd laugh if she could find the strength. If the irony didn't cut into her like jagged glass.

"I just heard from Mick. Um…Thom was caught up in some shit with that gang he was working for. There was a fight one night, he got caught in the crossfire…the whole place went up in flames so no one ever found the bodies, but"-

"Shut up." Christine grumbles with fatigue, shaking her head. From the casual way she's just dismissed him you'd think he had been teasing her about Princeton. Or asking the bra-size of one of her friends. Normal, obnoxious brother things. Not finalizing the death of his own best friend.

"Chris, it wasn't like he didn't"- He reaches out to her, but she picks up the box in front of her and crosses the room.

"I said shut up." She sighs. Blinking once or twice with shock, he leaves her alone to pack away what's left of her life.

* * *

_Now I'm looking for a reason why you even set my world into motion  
'Cause If you're not really here, then the stars don't even matter  
And if you're not really here, then I don't want to be either  
__I want to be next to you, black and gold, black and gold…  
_-'Black And Gold' by Sam Sparro

The first few months at Division are torture. His bullet wounds seem to make time itself slow down until centuries of pain and frustration are being encapsulated into every hour. They tell him he's going to be trained for black ops assassinations. Taught to shoot every kind of gun. Hardened until killing is second nature. At first he thinks it's just the morphine. But eventually the drugs wear off and he's left with the truth.

The survivor in him says there must be a way out. Every day's futile efforts echo the same response. He's trapped. But at least he's alive.

When he sleeps, he sees Chris. She's searching for him frantically, calling out for help, but no one will listen. Sometimes she even finds him and for a few heart-stopping moments he feels the indescribable softness of her skin against his own again. Then alarms go off and he's jerked awake. At first it's for physical therapy. Trying to get his muscles back to normal after they've been ripped up by lead is a nasty business and he could murder puppies after every session, he hates it so much. But therapy eventually gives way to sparring and weight-lifting and mental exercises. He thrives in every arena, finally able to let out his excess energy and for the first time in his life, being rewarded for it.

As much as Thom enjoys being able to shut off his brain and just kick some new recruit's ass for an hour or two, his life here is defined more by acceptance than anything else. It isn't choice or real happiness. It's simple survival. But then, on accident, he types the wrong codes into a computer during a training exercise one afternoon. Division's network is perfectly synched and suddenly he realizes that, with the right combination of letters and numbers, he has access to all of their satellite feeds. His pulse nearly halts but there isn't a second thought in his mind what he's going to look for first.

It takes weeks, almost a month, because his time is so closely monitored. But here and there, logging extra hours at night, sneaking in a code now and then between exercises, little by little he narrows his search. Until one night, he finally finds her.

His fingers and toes grow cold just staring at all the snow that lays over the graveyard. Chris must be freezing, sitting there on her knees in front of the marker, but if she is he can't tell. She doesn't shiver or even lift a finger to brush away the stray hair that blows into her eyes on a bitter wind. The only part of her moving is her mouth and he realizes that she's speaking. His brows furrow. What the fuck is going on?

When he zooms in, the image becomes slightly fuzzy, but he can just barely make out the name on the tombstone. His heart throws itself against his ribs painfully when he sees that it's his own. She's visiting him. She's speaking to _him. _Seven months and she still hasn't let go. Thom hasn't felt so much emotion since…since the first week he'd been taken in.

He doesn't understand why she's holding on. Clearly, he isn't coming back. Why doesn't she just let go? Why doesn't she let herself be happy? Why doesn't she give up? His fingers shake with a desire to toss the table beneath them to the floor. To tear this entire room apart. But if he has learned anything from his months at Division, it's restraint. Discipline. He's able to reign his emotions in, but just barely. Below his skin the rage and frustration and grief burn like the innards of a volcano.

She hasn't let go for the same reason he hasn't. Because she still loves him. It's because of that love that he risks solitary confinement, torture, even the threat of being cancelled to watch her whenever he can. His rigid muscles and grating nerves relax only at the sight of her. He prays she'll move on and find someone worth her time. He knows she can't spend the rest of her life in love with a ghost. But it's the most beautiful kind of heart break to watch her try.


End file.
